


Sound the Bugle

by Rhiannon1010



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Depression, Filthy, M/M, Songfic, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon1010/pseuds/Rhiannon1010
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is unable to deal with Marco's death. A songfic to Bryan Adams' Sound the Bugle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound the Bugle

Sound the bugle now.  
Play it just for me.   
As the seasons change, remember how I used to be.   
Now I can't go on.  
I can't even start.   
I've got nothing left. Just an empty heart. 

Pain.   
Pain was all he felt as he lay alone, blood running over the pale stones of the street. He had managed to drag himself over to a building and lean against it. He refused to die face down in a pool of his own blood, but the best he could manage would be sitting in a pool of his own blood. He began to tremble as he felt all the warmth flood out of his body along with his blood. Soon the pain left too, and all that remained was fear and exhaustion.   
"Where are you!" He cried out weakly. Tears ran down his cheeks an splashed into the ground, getting lost in the blood. Just like him. One soldier, lost in all the blood of battle.  
As blood loss started to claim him, all his memories converged at once. He saw him and all his friends on their first day in the trainee corps. He saw them training together. He saw them smiling on graduation day. He saw himself meeting his best friend. He saw all the days they spent growing into something else. He saw the night, last night. The night they had become lovers.   
"No one is looking for me," he realized. "They don't even know I'm gone. No one will notice." He sighed as he fought to keep his eyes open. No one would remember him. No one would find him. No one would care. All strength left his body, and his last thought was, "But will he notice?"

 

I'm a soldier, wounded so I must give up the fight.   
There's nothing more for me.   
Lead me away or leave me lying here. 

"No!"  
Two days after the battle of Trost, he was still combing the camps looking for him. He needed to know he was ok. He didn't know what he would do if one of those damned titans had eaten him. But all that ceased to matter when he had gone around the corner to piss and seen him, dead and broken on the ground, flies sitting on his glassy eyes and maggots already starting to feast on his decaying flesh in the hot sun.   
He froze in horror as he stared at the most important person in his world rotting away in a hell they had been forced into.   
"Marco!" Jean collapse to his hands and knees as he vomited all over the pristine white paving stones. Once he had coded himself, he crawled through the filth to his best friend. He pulled at the corpse, shaking him by the shoulders, knocking his head against the wall, begging him to wake up.   
"No! No no no no no!!! Wake up, Marco! Wake up! Don't leave me!" Jean pulle Marcos body close, soaking his uniform in thick, clotted blood, the stench of death covering every inch of his body. Jean dry heaved as he felt the unnatural wat the dead flesh gave way under his hands, muscle pulling away from bone, maggots falling to the ground. The smell of Marcos fetid body was enough to make Jean's head swim.   
"Please..."

 

Sound the bugle now.   
Tell them I don't care.   
There's not a road I know that leads to anywhere.   
Without a light, I fear that I will stumble in the dark.   
Lay right down, decide not to go on. 

Whiskey.   
That was all Jean wanted anymore. He had spent the weeks after the mass cremation locked in the barracks, drinking his mind int submission. Bottles littered the ground bu his bed, which smelled of vomit, sweat, piss, and sorrow. Jean hadn't bathed since the day before the battle and had only eaten once, when Mikasa had shoved the bread down his throat.   
Jean drained the contents of his latest bottle and threw it against the wall, watching, impassive, as millions of shards of glass glittered through the air.   
"Fuck." Jean rolled out of bed, just to fall to his hands and knees. He was to drunk to stand. He unsteadily crawled to the far corner of the room, leaving smears of blood on the stone floor. This was not the first time he had crawled like an animal through shards of glass just to perform his biological needs.   
Once he made it to the corner he used for a latrine, the managed to stand, heavily reliving on the wall for support. He undid his pants with clumsy fingers and pissed all over the wall.   
The barracks he had claimed were old abandoned ones that had been destroyed in the battle, so no one ever came to inspect the cleanliness of the room. He was also completely alone. Using the wall for support, he stumbled his way back to his bed, pants still undone, and collapsed on the filthy mattress. A strangled laughter slipped past his lips.   
"Corporal Levi would have a shit hemorrhage if he saw this place," he muttered. He lay on his bed, thinking of all the people who would be ashamed to see him like this, all except one. Jean always refused to think of him when he was awake. The bastard took all the sleep Jean had to begin with. He wouldn't take his waking hours too. Jean wouldn't be able to take it. 

 

You're a soldier now.   
Fighting in a battle to be free once more.   
That's what fighting's for. 

Morning.   
Jean woke up, still drunk. Too drunk. He turned his head away from the window, where the pale morning light was streaming in like daggers, to look at his emaciated arm. Malnutrition combined with his stagnant lifestyle had resulted in the total loss of his muscle mass and healthy fat stores. Whiskey, as it turns out, is no substitute for bread and potatoes. His blue veins stood out brightly against his pale, flakey skin, even through the grime that now coated every inch of his body.  
The Zangeshina trio had quit visiting him weeks ago, all the others even sooner. Jean was alone again. He didn't even have the strength to get out of bed any more. He was also having halluccinations. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw Marco. He saw Marco as a young recruit. He saw Marco as a soldier. He saw Marco as his friend. He saw Marco as he was on the night before the battle, but mostly, he saw Marco's body rotting away in his bed with him. At times like that, Jean could smell the decay and hear the maggots worming through his flesh. Sometimes, the corpse's head would turn to face him and speak. Usually it was just screams, but sometimes it would call out for Jean, saying how afraid and alone he was. He would beg jean to come find him. At times like this, Jean would almost do it.   
This was one of those times. He looked over to the small table beside his bed. Reflected in the old empty bottles was Marco's face, tears of blood covering his freckled cheeks.   
"Where are you Jean?! Why weren't you with me? I needed you! I need you now!"   
Jean's heart broke to hear the pain in the imaginary voice. He reached under his pillow and pulled out the knife Marco had given him years ago for his birthday. Without giving himself time to sober up and change his mind, Jean drew thin red lines over his wrists, painting his mattress with a new paint.   
"Where are you, Jean?"  
"I'm right here, Marco."


End file.
